


The Sting of Hellfire

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, Angst/Fluff, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens AU, Hurt/Comfort, I’ll add more tags as I go, I’m really making this up as I go oops, M/M, Revenge, Revenge Omens (masao.sketch), Reverse Omens, Writer’s Block Breaker :’), Writing instead of studying for the ACT, go me, ineffable husbands, me? Writing mild violence?, more likely than you think, non-descriptive violence, reverse au, sorta - Freeform, wow i know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-25 13:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21356713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which after the apocalypse, these two weren’t so lucky as to escape punishment completely.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	1. Brief Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> SO this is just based off of the Revenge Omens AU Masao.Sketch created. I’m super deep into writer’s block rn so I wanted to start with a premise that already has an interesting story. So. Yeet.

He was sure that this was worse than execution. Absolutely worse. Aziraphale had his fears about dying, sure. But falling? This was so, so much worse. As he was told, Heaven killed Crowley. That wasn’t quite right, but it might as well have been. He lost everything, his earth, his demon... so nothing stopped him from snapping.

Crowley wasn’t in much of a better position. Hell knew how much he hated having been an angel. They knew how he would react if he rose to grace again. For any other demon, it would have been a blessing. A second chance. He didn’t see it that way.

All they vowed to now was revenge. They were told the other was dead, and the other side was to blame for it. That bred a hatred within both of them, even if they didn’t like their new side. They hated the old one more.

It had been far too long since the whole ordeal for anyone to remember it. Hell, most demons couldn’t even remember Aziraphale’s name, and next to no one knew Crowley had once been a demon. They just knew that they both worked hard to fight the adversary. 

Crowley had gone about everything in a civilized manner. He cleaned up his act, his morale. He worked hard in Heaven to be allowed to go to Earth. And from there, he found every demon he could, and he destroyed them. A noble cause, really, temptation went down in his area, and Heaven sent him countless accolades for his work. But he still felt empty.

Of course he felt empty. Aziraphale was really all he had to live for. He was an emotionless killer now, but heaven didn’t even notice. He was doing his job, and that was all they needed. He was now the field agent of earth, just like he had been. He didn’t find much joy in what he used to. Though, he found himself eating much more. It reminded him of his angel. For the same reason, he read, he helped humans. He tried to do anything that would have made him proud.

And, so, when he had the chance to face the angel slayer, he was ecstatic. No one in heaven knew much about the demon, not even a name. They only knew he wielded a dagger infused with hellfire, killing any angel that was unfortunate enough to meet its offensive end.

He was to track him, first and foremost. He was to find him, kill him. Drown him in holy water, trap him, they didn’t care. As long as he couldn’t shed any more blood from the army of Heaven.

But, oh, if there was a demon killing angels, he wouldn’t spare any mercy on them.

On earth, Crowley had turned his lover’s old bookshop into a plant nursery. Simply being in the space brought him joy, like Aziraphale’s presence was still there. He had tracked the angel slayer down to Southwark, which seemed to be the only place in London he frequented. Most of the time, he was in more rural areas of the country. Ergo, he didn’t see him often, and he was never close enough; he was now. And by god, he would take advantage of that. 

He blended in quite well with the human population these days. He no longer had to worry about his eyes, so he didn’t draw much attention like his sunglasses had. And, of course, he still kept a keen eye on modern fashion. But, there was nothing particularly remarkable about him now, aside from the glass bottle of holy water tucked under his arm.

He traced him to an old bar. Though, he noticed, he moved to a nearby alleyway just before he got there. He must have sensed the angelic presence, though Crowley’s wasn’t strong. It was just vaguely... unnatural. But, he blocked that old alleyway’s entrance before he could move again.

He half thought it was Hastur due to the messy head of blonde hair. But that voice, that voice was definitely not Hastur.

“Ah, you’re the one they sent to end me?” The demon asked, glancing back to Crowley. “Weak.”

Crowley could barely speak. He know that voice, he knew that face. He looked so... dead. Devoid of emotion. Thin, too pale. There was what looked like a claw mark across his cheek, and a just-too-wide smile on his face. Human blood stained one sleeve of the white sweater he wore. “...Aziraphale?”

The other laughed, turning to face Crowley. He now saw the dagger he held, the one laced with hellfire to end any angel that met it. “Try again! Haven’t heard that name in a while,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

“No— Angel, it’s me! It’s Crowley! You’re alive! I—“ he heard Aziraphale click his tongue, shaking his head.

“Oh, dear. No, you can’t be _my_ Crowley. Your lot killed him, recall? No, no. It is a nice thought, though.” He took a few steps towards him, staying quiet. When Crowley didn’t make any move to push him away or attack, he simply plunged his dagger into his abdomen. __

“You should have used that holy water while you could, Aziraphale hummed, watching as he fell to the floor. The wound was painful, sure, but not because of the hellfire. That was familiar. Even.. pleasant. It was merely another discorporation for him. The demon knelt down, watching the light fade from his eyes.

“Interesting,” He hummed, pushing some red hair from his face. “He does resemble him, somehow...” he sighed some, pushing himself up he looked to the sky, smiling softly. “I took another one for you, dear. I hope you’re doing well... wherever you are.”

In the corridors of Heaven, Crowley appeared, visibly disturbed. His golden eyes were wide, his hair all covering his face. He didn’t even hear the surprised whispers going around the other angels, entirely bewildered that he had only discorperated against the hellfire in the blade. No, all he could do was think.

_What did Hell do to you, Angel?___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was really in the thick of my writer’s block in the first half of this chapter, if you couldn’t tell. I think i’ve gotten over it for a bit, so things should get better.


	2. Rained Out

As Crowley returned to the nursery he had made his home, he couldn’t help but let his eyes water. He knew that Aziraphale’s energy was still in the little corner of Soho, but it was now dull. Aziraphale hadn’t seemed to even recognize him. He thought he was dead. He called heaven… his lot. 

He couldn’t get over how frail he had looked. How… dead. The Aziraphale he knew exuded love and warmth. And now, he seemed to have been nothing but a cold, unfeeling killing machine. 

The perfect demon. The demon Crowley could never have been. Empathy had stood in between him and that archetype. His love. His love for his angel, specifically. His angel that didn’t exist anymore. His angel that asked him to dinner each and every night, his angel that dragged him to operas, who wore gloves when handling precious books. The angel that loved him, the angel that died for him. 

And he supposed, now, he truly was dead. The angel he knew and loved was dead and buried, buried under hellfire and blood and the muck of demonic culture.

Aziraphale was gone, even if the demon known as Z was alive and well, killing and smiling and putting the fury of hell into the wounds of angels. Sitting in hell, in a bloodstained sweater, staring at a fire and cleaning his blade. Thinking of his demon, who he was sure was just as gone as the principality he once was. 

Crowley was not gone. In fact, he seemed to be just like he was. Angry, questioning, caring, loving the earth. Never truly settling on how to style his hair, yelling at houseplants, blasting Queen out of any radio he could. 

But his other half was missing. And now, as he curled up in Aziraphale’s old, ridiculously uncomfortable leather armchair, he let himself cry. Cry until he couldn’t see, until his cheeks stung. Somehow, this was worse than thinking his angel was dead. What had hell done to make him like this? And could Crowley ever get through to him? That he was… himself?

That he wasn’t dead?

He was still on earth. Still in London, in fact. Should he try again? Now on earth did he go about that? Did he just keep showing up until the other realized hellfire wouldn’t kill him? He looked up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, and wondered. 

Did he still have wings? Were they black? Could he still read? Could he even forget how to read? When was the last time he slept? Dear god, he had looked so tired. And so skinny. Did he still eat? Had he been to the Ritz since his fall?

Did he still love him?

He had called him, _my_ Crowley. As he had blacked out, he’d seen him talking to the sky. He wasn’t talking to Her, he wouldn’t. No demon would. He let out a heavy sigh, looking around the back room. Maybe.. he could bring him a book. That might jog his memory, one of his copies of Oscar Wilde, the ones that had made him so happy. __

_ _Yes, maybe that would work. He pushed himself to his feet, his shaky hands adjusting his tie. He knew exactly where each novel sat, as he had carefully filed them in mourning. He bent down by a stack of boxes, rummaging through their contents before retrieving a signed, first edition copy of The Canterville Ghost. He just held it for a moment, staring at the worn leather cover. He ran his thumb over the corners, admiring the tarnished gilding that decorated them. Inside, in elaborate cursive, read: _ _

_ _ _Life is far too important a thing to talk seriously. Lighten up, dear Azira.  
O.W.___ _ _

_ _ _ _He sighed, walking to another side of the back room, where he kept the paper wrappings that houseplants arrived in. He carefully wrapped the book, tucking and pleating the brown paper around it. He glanced out of a foggy window, smiling gently at the soft pitter patter of raindrops on the glass. He grabbed a coat and an umbrella walking to where he had parked his car (legally)._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He tracked him down easier this time. It wasn’t just a vague, nonspecific demonic aura, no. It was his angel. And he had promised to always find him, didn’t he?_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The trail led him to a park, all but empty due to the rain. Empty, except for a black duck on the murky water, and a pale figure feeding it bread. He held the parcel to his chest as he got out of the Bentley, the umbrella shielding him from the rain. He knew Aziraphale noticed his presence, even if he didn’t acknowledge it. The demon didn’t even look up as he approached him, just slipped his hand into his pocket, clutching into something. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“You know, that’s pretty impressive, surviving Hellfire. I applaud you,” Aziraphale muttered, no trace of emotion in his voice. “I’ll discorperate you again and again, as long as you come back here.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Crowley stayed quiet, merely holding out the book. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“And what’s that?” He asked, tossing another chunk of bread into the water. “Is there holy water inside?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Oh, take it, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley groaned, his normally confident and upright posture faltering. Aziraphale cocked a brow at the expression, but snatched the package away. He tore off the brown paper with little regard, letting it litter the ground. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He stared at the book, nothing on his face changing. He opened the cover, reading over the note. He was silent for a long while, just pondering, staring. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Where did you get this?” He asked, not looking up. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I stayed in your bookshop, angel, I raise my plants there,” he answered softly. There was another stint of silence, before he snapped the novel shut. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“So, that’s what heaven wants to do? Play into my memories? I do applaud the strategy, but I know better than that. Crowley is dead, and you’ll join him now.” Crowley could see now, that in his pocket, he had been clutching the blade that had killed so many angels. He moved in such a swift motion to stab it into Crowley’s chest, he hardly even registered the pain. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“If you survive again, do tell heaven to leave me alone. I know their tricks,” he muttered, pulling back the blade. Crowley gasped, grabbing onto the side of the bench as he collapsed to the ground. His umbrella caught the wind, flying to set itself on the pond. He clutched his stomach, groaning at the pain._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Angel—“ he sputtered. Aziraphale shook his head, sighing._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I’m not one of you, silly angel. I’m a demon, get that through your thick skull.” He rose to his feet, though he kept the book tucked under his arm. “Now, look what you’ve done to my jacket,” he sighed, looking at the blood that had hit it. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Aziraphale, I don’t know what hell did to you— but I’ll come back. I’ll always find you,” Crowley hissed, his body going limp as the world went dark. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The demon sighed, looking up to the sky. “That’s the cruelest thing she’s come up with, isn’t it, dear?” He murmured, closing his eyes. “They can send a million of your clones, I won’t let it get to me,” he promised, putting his blade into his pocket. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I’ll mow them all down for you, my dear.”_ _ _ _


	3. Bitter Memories

Though his face would never change to show it, Aziraphale was awfully torn up about the current situation. He still sat on the park bench, soaking wet from the rain. The dead corporation had disappeared, only blood left to tell of his actions.

What he thought was a terribly cruel trick from Heaven was bringing back too many memories. The only reason Aziraphale had any memories left was due to them being fuel for sin. He didn’t remember heaven, or how anything up there worked anymore, but he remembered his demon. As usual, those happy memories brought not-so-happy emotions. He had mostly gotten over it within the first ten years, when his empathy had escaped him.

It was a painful reminder, what those memories brought back. What he had lost. He found it amusing that Heaven thought this could weaken. If anything, it just strengthened his resolve.

When Crowley reappeared in Heaven, he was sobbing. It was enough to cause some concern from the others, though no one approached him. They just approached Gabriel, asking him to do so. Now, Crowley still hated Gabriel with every fiber of his being. He didn’t know how he was able to tell Aziraphale to his face, to die, with a smile on his lips. And Gabriel knew he hated him. He was one of the few angels that remembered the demon Crowley had been. But, the two had accepted that now, they worked together. Even if there was still bad blood and venom in every word Crowley said to him, they tried to keep things more or less professional.

So, he did as the others asked, shooing most of them away as he approached the other. He knelt down beside him, honestly surprised he didn’t immediately push him away. Their relationship may have been professional, but Crowley did not tolerate contact.

“Crowley,” he sighed, placing a hand on his back. “Why are you back? You’re usually very careful about discorperation.”

“I can’t kill him,” he gasped, his eyes blurry. “I won’t.”

“What, the angel slayer?” Gabriel muttered. “Why not? He’s a murderer.”

“He-” he shook his head, covering his face. “I can’t.”

“What, did you know him?”

He mustered a nod. Of course, Gabriel thought it was a demon that he had known when he was in hell. The man sighed, standing up. “Crowley, you must remember why we chose you for this task. You’re the only angel alive that could survive this. There is no one else to do it. And, if you don’t succeed, he will kill dozens more angels. You know that.”

“I… yes, I know.” He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t kill him. Never in a million years. But… if the killings continued, Crowley would be in big trouble. He didn’t so much care about the other angels, he cared about saving his own ass from Gabriel. They’d find something worse than making him fall. Of course, casting him out would null the entire punishment. Falling would be a blessing, at this point. 

Getting through to him would be terrible, and would take ages. How many more angels would Aziraphale kill before he believed that he was who he said he was? What else could Crowley do to prove it? His tattoo? Memories? Just go to him over and over again until he got it through his head?

“Can— can I.. do a few sets of discorporation paperwork in advance?” He asked. “This is going to take a while.”

-

Aziraphale was not surprised that, even when he retreated to South Downs, that odd, vague presence showed up again. Where he stayed was a small abandoned family home, the son had gone crazy and shot everyone inside. No rent on a house no one dared to touch. 

He sighed softly as the aura grew stronger, moving to stand up and grab his knife. How long would this go on? Why were they trying so hard? Why didn’t they just douse him in holy water and get it over with?

He opened the door right as Crowley’s hand raised to knock it. The angel froze, frowning. “Aziraphale,” he greeted. 

“Don’t call me that. How are you still alive? I’m getting tired of this,” he sighed. 

“You can stab me all you want after a moment, but I would like to talk to you…”

“I prefer the stabbing now, personally. Angels aren’t to be trusted, with anything, really.” He flipped his knife in his hand, then holding the blade to his throat. 

“Please, just— a minute.”

“You’ve had far past a minute. What the heaven do you want?”

Crowley sighed, pushing his hair behind his ear. “How do I prove to you that I’m who I say?” He whispered. “Can I, even?” He grimaced at the silence, but then it was laughter. Not the warm, happy laughter Aziraphale usually brought, but a cold, echoing kind. 

“You truly expect me to believe the Crowley, of all demons, was raised to grace? That doesn’t happen.”

“I was the worst demon hell had ever seen! I suggested killing the antichrist, for God’s sake. I— I… I’m not a much better angel either, but that isn’t really the point.”

Aziraphale observed him carefully, his cold eyes scanning him up and down. “You certainly do resemble him, but he’s dead.”

“You’re supposedly dead too! Everyone in heaven thinks you’re dead! The only reason hell doesn’t know I’m alive is because Beelzebub erased their memories of me—you, bathing in holy water.”

The demon paused at that. “Sorry?”

“Please tell me you still remember, you have to. When you bathed in holy water wearing my face. Your first time in hell shouldn’t be that easy to forget.”

Heaven wouldn’t know that. As far as they knew, Crowley just had immunity. They didn’t know about the switch, they couldn’t. That was something… only Crowley would know.

He stepped back, setting his knife on the table. Maybe… that would explain why he only was discorporated by the hellfire. That was a shitty sliver of hope to hold onto. What else would heaven not know about? 

“If you’re Crowley, then you would know some things,” he hummed, beginning to walk around. “Things that heaven wouldn’t. For example, why was I in Edinburgh in 1602?”

“To do my work. You allowed a priest to fall away from the light of god.”

“You’d know how I take my tea,” he mused, raising a finger to his lips. 

“Three sugars and two spoons of cream.” Crowley was smiling, now, staring at his feet as he was interrogated. “If you ever slept, you kept the swan shaped lamp on. You always kept a copy of Jane Eyre under the desk of the bookshop. You had six copies of Don Quixote, and sold one when a customer really pressed you for it. And you cried about it. You always got the duck or lamb at The Ritz, and your favorite wine was Gewüztraminer.” During his rambles, he didn’t notice Aziraphale look up, tears lining his eyes. He was cut off by a gentle hand on his shoulder. The tears were gone nearly as quickly as they had appeared.

“Get in the house, you dumbass,” he mumbled, turning to walk towards the couch. Crowley grinned, pulling the door shut behind him. He sat down gingerly across from Aziraphale, waiting for him to speak. 

“...I don’t remember a lot, actually,” he mumbled. “Just you, really.” He looked down to his hands. He still looked so emotionless. “It’s ‘cause you fuel my rage, I think. Thinking heaven killed you, and all. Why I started killing them in the first place. Though, guess being Her puppet isn’t much better than dying, huh?”

Crowley smiled sadly, shaking his head. “No, it’s not, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to fall for years, but it won’t happen. Hell, I bet I could start killing other angels and they’d just reprimand me.”

Aziraphale sighed some, leaning back. “They’ll find another way,” he mused, resting his hands on the top of the couch. From this angle, Crowley could see how absolutely emaciated he looked. 

“Angel…” the name was out of habit, really. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“Mm. Don’t eat anymore. You know, how the fall takes everything you love. Everything tastes like ash. I’d say it took my focus, too, but that isn’t true. Still, I can’t read more than half a page these days.” He closed his eyes some, avoiding Crowley’s essentially horrified reaction. “Then you, of course. When all that’s gone, fuck all is left but hatred. And bloodlust. And that’s the only shit you know how to enjoy. Well, I shouldn’t be explaining, you know all of this.”

Crowley shook his head slowly. “I… don’t remember what it took from me. I didn’t have anything to miss. Didn’t… have anything to lose.” His voice trembled some. “But, Ah— damn, I really do hate all the emotions that come with grace.”

“I don’t envy you, honestly. Besides, hell appreciates me more than heaven ever did. Beelzebub isn’t that terrible when you do as you’re told.” Crowley scrunched up his face, shaking his head. He stayed silent for a moment, looking away. 

“You… said… you hadn’t heard your name in a long time. What do they call you down there?”

“Z, most of them. ‘Aziraphale’ is too long for most of them to remember.”

“Demons really are idiots,” he sighed, rubbing his head. His eyes flickered up to the other, and he noted how absolutely terrible it was to ignore the urge to just wrap him up in a hug. He just wanted to kiss him all over and protect him from whatever hell was doing. “I’ll…” he hesitated, looking down to his hands. “I’ll leave you now. Unless you’d like to discorporate me to save face.”

Aziraphale cocked a brow, leaning forward. “You’re not going to get away from me so easily, Crowley.” His voice was actually… soft, in a way. “Avenging you is the only reason I haven’t dunked myself in holy water. I’m not going to lose you again,” he muttered.

Crowley’s face softened, and he hesitantly moved to wrap his arms around the other, still not quite sure whether or not he’d be reprimanded for doing so. Aziraphale allowed it, though, even moving one of his arms to weakly embrace him back. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, looking down.


End file.
